


Attention to the Details

by ImpartialGorgon



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 06:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15680163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpartialGorgon/pseuds/ImpartialGorgon
Summary: Madame De Fer tries to help Inquisitor Trevelyan overcome an anxiety.





	Attention to the Details

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick fic, touching on an idea for an Inquisitor with anxiety problems. Overthinking is the worst.

She hated it. It burned. The constant light interrupted her dreams. It was a mistake, a glamorous cancer. At first she tried ignoring it. When the pain flared and refused to be ignored she unleashed her wrath upon it. She would place her hand against the ground, and kneel with all her weight into her palm. She buried her arm past her elbow deep into the snow once. The green flickering was completely obscured that time. 

Mostly, though, she would hold a rock. It was a jagged thing she found that fit the width of her hand. She would squeeze it until well after the lingering aches would subside. The muscles in her hand would lock into place, and she would have to pry each finger away from the grip.

She was sure to wrap her hand tightly in a length of cloth before bed each night. She had to pretend it wasn’t there so she could finally soothe herself to sleep. Occasionally she would wake in the middle of the night, the bandage askew. The light would send a jolt of panic deep into her belly, and peace would be forfeit in exchange for pacing and scratching at the wound which could not heal, and bled entirely wrong.

“Inquisitor!”

She had been attempting to sneak down into the basement library to study in solitude, when the messenger intercepted her.

“Inquisitor, Madam De Fer wishes to speak to you.”

“Did she say why?”

“No Ser, sorry Ser.”

The messenger retreated quickly, which was a minor relief compared to the dread building in her stomach.

Madam De Fer. The Iron Lady herself.

She climbed the stars to the Great Hall balcony with feet made of lead, collapsing into herself once she reached her destination; Head down, shoulders rounded, hands behind her back.

“Ah, My Lady Inquisitor! I see my message has been delivered.”

“Yes madam.”

“It is important for the sake of our reputation that all aspects of the Inquisition be addressed with the utmost care. It is my understanding that certain details have yet to be properly addressed.”

Vivienne retrieved an excessively ornate box while she spoke, handing it to the inquisitor who hesitated long moments before accepting it.

“I am well aware that it is not my responsibility to correct every oversight, but I’ve dedicated myself to this cause, and will not allow these mistakes to be ignored.”

Within the box were a pair of gloves; soft and tan, long enough to cover her wrists.

Embarrassment flushed her face, her ears became hot, and it felt like her stomach had twisted into a knot. She could no longer hear a word Vivienne spoke, sounds having melted into nothing more than a loud sustained buzzing.

She retreated as quickly as she was able, offering every polite gesture she could remember before begging off. She made her way to her private chambers before expressing her actual feelings.

Here it was, proof that her shames were no longer her own: they now belonged to anyone who cared enough to pay attention, and according to Josephine there were many people who cared enough to pay attention.

If she could ignore the gloves she could ignore what they represented. She could continue coping independently. She didn’t need anyone’s help. She could cling to some semblance of her pride.

She managed to avoid the unsolicited gift for a week and did it well, until her hair fell into her eyes one evening. She absentmindedly brushed the stray lock behind her ear using her left hand, passing the flash of green across her eyes.

Hours later the grip of fear had released its hold, and her breathing and heart rate returned to normal. Exhaustion had pushed her past point of caring.

Before she could raise her personal defenses again, she retrieved the dreaded box from its hiding place.

Vivienne was right, the gloves worked.

The accessories had been commissioned with excessive forethought, being a perfect shield from the light. The Inquisitor could forget the Mark for hours at a time now.

Once wearing them became habit a new pair of gloves arrived every two weeks, with the designs clearly corresponding to a specific outfit she had recently worn. She swore to keep on the good side of the woman with such keen eyes and acute memory.

And how Trevelyan was torn. She should have thought of it herself! How could she have overlooked such a simple and effective solution?

Her embarrassment flared each time an embellished package appeared upon her desk, the gilded symbol of her shame. It was a reminder that her private struggles were observed by entire nations. She could no longer be the girl who hid in the cupboard to calm herself. The sad reality was that there were now people who observed and recorded to the minute how long she was missing from the public eye.

And, damn her, Vivienne was right again: appearances did matter.

But each time she opened that new pair of gloves, below that shame and embarrassment, buried deep behind her navel, was a tiny, hated, glow of pleasure.

Her collection became impressive, formidable and varied. Short, long, fur lined, silk trimmed, embroidered and every shade of the rainbow. Every pair was well crafted and comfortable; exquisite, satisfying and luxurious.

* * *

 As she returned from a lengthy scouting trip, she found a new box waiting patiently for her. The enclosed letter was tied to the package with ribbon.

_My dear, if you find a pair does not meet your satisfaction please let me know. I’ve had that particular artisan on retainer for years now. His work is quite skilled._

The following morning the reply was received. Two words from the Inquisitor herself, heartfelt and unreserved:

_Thank You_


End file.
